Snow
by juliamwright
Summary: Meet Ivorie, a strong-witted, impulsive-thinking young girl, trapped in a taffy-like body. But she wasn't always like that. She once was the dead girl walking. But here she is again. She's not willing to stop, she finds it comfortable in the suffocating snow. We can't try to stop, either; we'll just be pulled back into the snow. Inspired by Laurie Halse Anderson, Snow gives readers
1. Chapter 1

"I have to go." I picked up my bad, hugging Mum real quick. "The appointment is in a half-hour."

"Hurry, we have to go to the food shelf as soon as you get back." Mother said, dried mascara taking flight through the air as she blinked twice.

I pull up my baggy shorts and open the front door, leaving the air-conditioned heaven into the hell outside. The apartment door slams, locking because of Mom's severe agoraphobia. My headphones rested in my ears, pounding notes and lullabies into the drums. My knees only brush lightly as I walk, my muscles ache. _I just wanna sleep. I'm exhausted. _I reach the office, where sessions take place, and pull out my headphones as I refill my water bottle at the fountain. _So far today I've had 200 calories and it's 2pm. Wonderful._

The coffee and creamer (20) and the cereal I was forced (small bowl=180) churn in the pit of my stomach (=200) as I walk to the psychologist's office. _I really shouldn't have eaten that. I feel I'm about to upchuck. Ew._

"Oh, hello, Ivorie." Said Dr. Ridley. She motioned to a chair. "Please sit."

I sit in a chair, tapping my foot inconspicuously in anxiety. Ridley pulls out the barely-written-in pink note pad. _By now, we should be at our third notebook, but I never speak. They don't need to know my business: Especially her. I never wanted to come here, but I'm forced to.. _An opaque mist falls between Ivorie and Ridley. _Time to pretend to listen and nod/shake my head for 40 minutes._

"How was this past week?" Dr. Ridley asks, clicking her ballpoint pen to write. There's no point in it anyway, I'm not going to speak. _I'm not going to speak_.


	2. Chapter 2

3 silent minutes pass. I attempt to count the books on the large bookshelf behind the psychologist. _83, I think, but my mind is a little muggy..._the heat from the mist is fogging up in my cold head. Ridley sighs and says something, but her voice is garbled white noise to me. The mist thickens as I space out.

The warm mist gets colder, soon turning to snow, frost forming on my cheeks and a drift burying my feet. It all hits me in a blizzard

**/moron | stupid | worthless | thick | fat | obese | alone | weird | freak | weak\**

and I'm outside without a coat. I look down at my hands and watch them slowly turn blue. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. _This shouldn't be happening to me. Not yet, at least._

I can't feel my legs- they're large, chubby, sky blue lumps of taffy, gross and fat. I can't stand the feeling of my thighs touching when I walk. It disgusts me; reminds me that I got caught. _You weak, stupid, worthless moron._

_You got caught_

Ridley's alarm goes off and I shoot up, the temperature rising.


	3. Chapter 3

_Oh boy, too fast._ I stumble a little, taking hold of the edge of the cheap table. It cost no more than thirty dollars. Dr. Ridley asks if I'm okay, and I just nod.

"See you next week." She says dully, with not an ounce of enthusiasm.

Once I'm outside I look up at the hill and mentally groan, but then I perk up.

_Burning calories, you're burning calories, you're burning calories…_

it all just repeats in my head until it's saved into my SD card and on replay. I drag my feet up the giant hill that leads the way home. I give myself a little math challenge on the way: _1 mile up a 45° incline hill at 4.5 miles per hour…It has a MET of 6.3...meaning 6.3*65*.75= 307.125 calories…-107.125 calories...excellent. _I'm soaring, my mind high in the clouds, watching the birds. But then that's ruined.

_You stupid fat bitch. Why did you get caught? Why did you hide that stupid journal where they'd find it?!_

My thoughts are leaking into the air, the gases' fumes tearing my eyes. Why did she have to find out? She tells me in about three sentences. Psht. I wasn't even dying, I didn't see a problem. I was 089.00 then (BMI = 14.4.) That was a year and a half ago.

Now I'm 119.00 (BMI = 19.2.) I cry in my psychiatrist's office every time after the number of shame. It's just embarrassing; humiliating to my hard work thrown away. I remember when I was 12; 089.00 dead pounds. Nobody knew. Nobody saw. Nobody cared.

Then my fat percentage just skyrocketed for no relevant reason. I cried. I starved. I ran. I don't know what I was doing wrong. My parents avoid doctors, and I don't need them. _Thank God._ But why did I get caught?

**/ moron | stupid | worthless | thick | fat | obese | alone | weird | freak | weak \**

The doctor says I'm lucky I put on that weight; my large frame couldn't function properly. Well, I worked for that, thank you very much. I'm apparently supposed to be at 160.00, a nice, plump Ivory, but I refuse to go any higher than 145.00. I cringe at the thought of it, all that fat, disgusting weight. I feel fatter already- just thinking about it.


	4. Chapter 4

Mum opens the door for me, and I kick my shoes off to take my socks off and put my headphones in to pace.

**/ calories | calories | calories | burn | burn | burn | lose weight | lose weight | lose weight \**

I pace in circles in my precious corner of the living room. Music blares into my eardrums, but I don't hear them. I turn it up louder. Every two minutes I switch directions to evenly exercise each leg, plus, I mean, I like a little variety. It's always been a habit. My mother watches me anxiously, but it's gone from addiction-related-habits to a battle-not-worth-fighting. There's no point in arguing. It's a routine: I pace for four hours until Paul gets home.

Paul is my stepdad, though I don't like him because all my life he's tried to replace my Dad. He's tall, lean; your perfectly built husband.

Mom doesn't feel like cooking, so it's pickout night, so everyone just whips something up for themselves. I happen to screw up, making wild rice soup and eating half the pot (440,) then I move for cereal (300,) then cookies (480.)

Dinner is served. (=1220)


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm going to shower." I announce, standing up abruptly and heading for the stairs. I look at the dark scar at the back of my right hand, below the knuckles of my puking fingers. Here we go again.

I close and lock the bathroom door, starting the water. Cold. I strip down in front of the glass of shame. I run my fingers over my collar bones; they are slowly crawling up from their fat grave. My fingers travel along my breasts and my stomach. They are bulbous and evoke tremors as I touch them. I have sudden flashbacks of when my cheeks were hollow; the inside of my abdomen had a shadow, my skin a ghostly pallor.

My arms stretch to my sides to see the required amount of fat hanging off. _Too much._

My thigh shakes as I lift it up against the sink. I fight my eyes from tearing up. I can't believe I let them make me this fat. I can't do this. I can't stand it.

I put the toilet seat up, and stick my index, middle, and ring finger down my throat. I tickled my uvula and my epiglottis. I hold my brittle black hair with badroots back. My stomach heaves up, up, up, and thar she blows.

I throw up calories, lies, the pain, my parents, all the other bullshit. My eyes tear up bloodshot and my limbs tremble feebly. I look into the bowl to see the light brown mixture of cookies and cereal. I take a second to breathe, well more like gasp or wheeze, and I go again. I cough and sputter, tickling in a circular motion now, desperate to get it up. I hear the grumble and splash of soup.

_It tastes better the second time._

_~woosh~_

Before I step in, I look at the mirror once more and grin a vomit-crusted smile. I feel less bloated, I feel thinner. I take a towel to wipe the vomit from my chin and hand, rubbing my eyes. I step under the cold downpour, shivering but enjoying the feeling on my muscles.

**/ moron | stupid | worthless | thick | fat | obese | alone | weird | freak | weak \**


	6. Chapter 6

Everyone in the apartment is asleep. Everyone except me. I slide out of bed, my bones cracking and groaning as I move. I go into the back bedroom and look on my phone for my schedule. _100 jumping jacks, 90 Russian twists, 45 crunches, _and so on. I do every list on my phone until I can't breathe. My lungs scream for oxygen as I hold onto the edge of the bedframe for balance.

_Do aerobics until you faint...being thin and not eating are signs of true will power and success…_

The inspirational voices repeat themselves in my head. Gotta keep going. Always. Keep. Going. You don't stop, because, once you jump into the snow, you feel the numbness and you just don't want that to go away. You just want it to be stronger and more and more intense. Until you're made of nothing but toothpicks and wax. _One wrong move, and you fall apart…_

I open my eyes and realise I'm lying on the disgusting carpet caked with dirt and dust and Play-Doh. I passed out. That never happens to me. I look at my phone and realise it's 2:00 AM. I passed out for three hours. Ivorie needs some sleep. I take 4 magic pills and collapse on my bed. Dreams and visions of purity and perfection marinate in my head; it simmers on low, to last all night and the next day.

My eyes open again and I realise it's now August. School starts in a month. Damn it. I hate high school. I groan and realise it's my birthday in a few days. I hate cake, and I hate the festivities my Mother creates and the extents she goes to to avoid me seeing my Father. I remember when I would transport for him. Made a lot of money, and hilariously enough, no one knows about his sales other than my friends who are good customers.

I roll out of bed and put on black skinny jeans and my _The Doors _shirt. I take my bandana and tie my hair up; too lazy to brush it. I peek into my closet to see my only shoes; my rotten old chucks. My favourite shoes, in fact, the only ones I'll wear. I slip them on, unfolding the necks so the hide my ankles. I wrap the bottoms in _one more_ roll of duct tape, and do a walk test. _I remember when I got these shoes._

It was the beginning of seventh grade, and I was with my Father. He finally got enough money, and we were walking through the thrift shop. I looked at all the shoes, and saw these chucks. _Then we bought them and went to get ice cream (180,) but of course I said I was vegan. _My thighs never met, they were barely there since sixth grade. I was somewhat happy, and somewhat had friends, but then they started noticing. I had to do what I had to do- get rid of the cops and be alone.

It's actually better, because no one can stop you or tell you what you can and can't do, and you also get things done faster. It's more productive. I don't need morons stopping me from soaring.

I shake my head, and try to stop thinking. My head spins and I don't know where I am. I get a chill, my limbs shaking and my teeth chattering. It starts to flurry around in my small little room, ice crackling on the window. I try to lift my foot to walk, but it's frozen into the ice. My head spins faster and faster and faster and-


	7. Chapter 7

I lazily open my eyes, looking at the snowflake-texture ceiling of my bedroom. I groan at the ring in my ears and the cheap apartment pressing into my back, old, forgotten legos, pencil graphite, and all. Sitting up is difficult; so I pull myself up with Madelyn's crib. I notice a blood-stain on the carpet and check my nose. _God, damn it._

The soft fluff of a tissue is rolled and pressed into my nostrils. My Mother doesn't even freak out when she sees- she's convinced that I'm anemic. I pitch the Cottonelle when it dries up, my nose whistling when I breathe.

"Bloody nose again?" Mother pours Schweppes Sour into a glass, then whiskey.

A Whiskey Sour. Her classic. I remember when I'd make her one sometimes to help her wake up. Sometimes a Bloody Mary if her stomach was upset. Or a Sex on the Beach when she felt festive, or a Strawberry Daiquiris if she felt like something fancy. I don't even know, sometimes she'd just swig Bacardi to wake up for her Pastor to come by, just to keep her fresh. I remember when she was drunk she let me have a Jägermeister shot, and my God was it gross. I wish I could drown myself in all her drinks…I'd forget it all.

Her mouth spews words toward me, but my Voice Command Application isn't picking it up. _I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. Did you say sleep forever in a wooden box six feet under? I can do that._

"Ivorie Rose!" She spats.

I shake my head, ruffling my feathers. "Sorry. Zoned out."

"Maybe you should see Doctor Bidwell. Or your Neurologist, Doctor Bu'Ve. I think the seizures are flaring up."

Once little Ivorie was nothing but a bonebag, her brain wasn't working right, so she flipped the fuck out and had seizures, from absent to grand maul. I know, inconvenient.

"Haha, thanks, but I don't need a Doctor; just tired." I look around and tremble in surprise. "Holy shit I'm in the kitchen."

She laughs. I always get vertigo, anhedonia, or whatever. "Yeah, dork. Anyway, I have to get ready, Maddye has an appointment."

I nod. Now she'll go up to her room, look in the vanity and tell herself that she'll be okay, that it's just outside. _Nothing to be afraid of. _Ha, I wish. The world is an irrationally scary place. It's completely rational, I lied, but the reason I stay and go is because I have nowhere else to be; my emancipated ass (Mother thought I should take responsibility) could get a job, apartment, and take care of myself, but I have _no willpower. _None. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

Mother left her Sour behind, half-finished. I down it and scrub the dishes until my knuckles are burning white and my hands are prunes.


	8. Chapter 8

August in Minnesota can be fairly cold. I put on my big hoodie and grab my car keys from the hook, and stroll out to the parking lot and I unlock my green '91 Golf. Paul says it's 'unacceptable' for a 'young woman' of my 'status,' and that he'd buy me a 2014 Accord or something fancy with Auto-Park or whatever. But I told him to go screw himself and that my Dad bought me this car; special. He had racked up just enough money to get it from his friend Zach. Plus in my opinion it fit my personality, and got good gas mileage. Not to mention I love stick-shifting.

The streets in Minneapolis are generally really busy, but considering the fact that everyone is at work, they go by smoothly. I drive under the bridge by Riverside, and pull onto 94. My mind numbs as I shift and when I regain consciousness I'm on Lexington, then I turn to Grand Avenue. I pull into the parking lot, paying my toll with my Member card, and park on the top floor. I look out from the top. The wind howls, lightly shoving me as if I was a leaf. _I wonder if at the speed I were to drop, if I went in the right pose I'd fall and die._

I shake my head out of it and take the staircase down to the sidewalk. I look around at all the cafes and see _Cafe Latte_, and walk in. It's fairly busy, but I can manage through the lines. I buy myself a Vegan Soy Latte (120, they make it special for me; I'm a usual,) and eat 3 pita crackers with 1 tablespoon mustard (37.) I sit on the top balcony, watching the people eat their sandwiches and salads. I hear them chew and mentally groan and gag. Someone is eating a turkey-cheddar-lettuce-and-guacamole sandwich on sourdough (450.) They sip their special cherry lemonade (120) and cough a little. Ew.

Someone else, an old woman, BMI=20.6, is eating a cilantro pasta salad (200) with extra chicken and olives. She raises her hand and complains to staff that they put _waaay_ too much cilantro in her salad. The man says that's how it's supposed to be. She argues. He asks if she wants the manager. She nods curtly. I sigh, and sip my coffee. I remember when I was in prison for the second time, they took us here on outings. I got what the man got, the GuacaTurkey sandwich. Except I had it on rye.

A little girl is whining that her cocoa is too hot and she burned her tongue. The Mother takes an ice cube and tells her to suck on it and she obeys, spitting it out and whining that she's too cold. Her brother's ice cream cone falls off into his lap and he starts crying. Mommy takes a napkin and dabs at his trousers, using a spoon to get the milky mess off of his new khakis. The daughter yells that David smeared ice cream on her. Mommy yells at David to apologise to Lilith and to clean himself up.

I sit back in the booth, my head relaxing in the leather cushions. I'm poked by a man named Cullen that they're closing and it's time to leave. I rub my eyes, look around, and see that the old woman, GuacaTurkeyMan, Mommy, David, and Lilith are all gone. I nod and get up, sipping my now warm coffee, grimacing at the terrible aftertaste. I see forgotten, half-eaten cheesecake (340) in a to-go box on a table, and I swiftly walk by, taking it and putting it in my bag. I hear a man come by and ponder where his food went. Oh well.

The clock bongs 6 times, a man falls off the hour hand. A murder was planned professionally by a criminal mastermind, like on _Monk_. He killed the man, tied him to the hour hand, and once it stroke six, he'd slide and fall onto the sidewalk, blood splattered on the brick walls and concrete. A little girl screams and drops her Subway bag, with her half-eaten six inch cold cut. Cars swerve in shock, and there's a crash. Someone yells that it's a high school professor who slept with the principal.

My car swerves with the others and I get old office-suit and dead skin and blood all over my wheels and windshield. I pull into the driveway and notice that there's blood all over and freak the hell out. I stain the landscape with bleach and ammonia. My hands are burned and chafed from the chemicals. I shake my head out of it. No murder. No blood. No ammonia or bleach, or burned hands.

My hands unlock the door with the key and walk in to an empty apartment.


	9. Chapter 9

I look around me and hear for anyone. Nope. No Mom, Maddye, or Paul. Not one soul in this apartment, not even mine. I softly walk across the carpet into the kitchen and look for the computer- my laptop is calmly sitting on the counter charging. The old Acer is calling me; I pick it up and go up into my room. I press the on button and the engine and fan whisper a hello. My user, "Oh hell no," is already opened for me, and I click it.

Millions of apartment leases and coupon sites and blogs appear in front of me. I'm trying to get out of here, but when I got out of prison the first time, they revoked my emancipation, but soon, after stuffing my face, they gave it back, saying that if I were to move out I would need a roommate to watch me. Otherwise, if I don't relapse until a certain deadline (In 1 week,) I could live alone, and my God was I somewhat excited. I scroll through the apartment sites and job applications. I'll probably get two jobs, one at the Cafe and the other at a 24-hour fitness facility.

That'll definitely keep me busy.

I close all the apartment leases until I see the one I was looking for- 2-bedroom, 1-bath studio above a library. Perfect. I write down the number in my agenda and bookmark the tab. I write down the numbers for the work places also, bookmarking those. It leaves the blogs behind for me to scroll through and read. It's all just the usual rubbish- thinspo and crap. I close it out. It just reminds me of how hungry I am.

Actually, I'm not hungry, my mind is, and it doesn't need anything. It just wants to be fabricated with false fats and sugars; things I don't need. I eat 3 baby carrots (15) with very little hummus (15=30.) Crunch, chewchewchew, swallow, repeat. It's an endless cycle that all of us are trapped in, filling our bodies with nothing but rubbish we don't need. I'm pacing not in circles, but back and forth between Mum's liquor cupboard and the telly.

Backforthbackforthbackforth goes my head throughout the pace. I take a shot of vodka and keep going. I go on the computer to Facebook. I see that Graham's on. _Oh great._ I close the window, it's not like he'd answer me anyway. My mind suddenly lurks back into that place, that terrible place. And then I'm not even here.

I'm not in the apartment anymore; I'm in summer school, two months ago, sitting next to Graham. He winks and passes a note. I read it and agree to meet him. I've liked him for a while, but I don't even know why. It's just been a subconscious attachment; it's like he was my only source of comfort. I meet him at the old abandoned park, behind the bathrooms, like he said. I look to my right and see him walking down the hill through the overgrown brush towards me, smirk on his face. I wave.

_This is completely harmless, he just wants to chat._ He waves back, speeding up his pace and he's standing right in front of me and holyshitishetall stopthinkingstopthinkingstopthinking youidiot. I'm not even paying attention, and I come back and his lips are on mine. My eyes are wide open in surprise, and I gasp in shock.

He pulls back, "This is what you wanted, right?"

I pause, nodding softly. I'm against the wall, the dried vine from the brick growing onto my wired frame, tying me to the wall. My hands are around his neck, his hands traveling. I'm panicking, I don't know how to tell him to stop.

I want him to stop.

I try to fight.

I can't win.

"What's the matter, dollface?" He smirks snidely. "I thought this was what you wanted?"

"No." I say quietly, frightened.

"Yes."

I'm crying softly; I would scream but he knows my lungs are weak and my vocal chords snapped. Literally- as a child my surgeon accidentally snapped most of my vocal chords, meaning I could barely speak. He snickers in my ear. "Can't cry out.." My nails dig into his back as I hear the buttons on my shirt pop off while he tears it. _Damn it, my favourite flannel._

Not anymore.

I'm terrified.

I'm helpless.

We're in his bedroom now; he lived a block away, and I see a pipe with handcuffs chained to it. I'm horrified. He does this all the time; he's nothing but a sex demon. It smells thick of semen and alcohol and marijuana and a helpless girl's fear. The light is flickering, and still, I'm scared stiff. I can't move; he's got one hand cuffed to the old, broken, rusty pipe. I see that there's scratches on the pipe, dents from girls trying to escape.

He does this all the time.

**/scared|kissmychest|bruise|iloveyou|liar|caressmybody|why|calmdowndollface\**

I'm gasping, moaning, crying- one part of me loves the pleasure; the other is frightened. I don't know if I should even try to call for help, I'm too caught up in this. Graham's teeth nibble my ear, sucking my neck. All I'm thinking is _whatdoIdowhatdoIdowhatdoIdowhatdoIdo?! _

"Your bra is cute~" He sniggers, snapping it off. I see a large tattoo on his chest, covering his body and torso. "You'll be perfect in my little garden."

The tattoo was of a large vine, _bleeding hearts_, each little heart looks newer and older, as if he was counting. There were bleeding hearts, periwinkles, jasmines, and lavender blossoms. He points at his heart, where the vine cuts off. "You'll be right here."

"_You'll be right here."_

"_**You'll be right here."**_

My legs feel heavy, my arms are dumbbells. I lift my head up, to see that I had fainted. _Again._ It's odd, I never faint, this often, at least. I get up and eat a small banana (90.) I now feel better; a lot better, but worse at the same time. I do 200 jumping jacks to burn the banana away (-100.) I hear a _buzz! _and see that my phone went off. Little glitches and voices echo:

"You'll be right here."

"Don't be scared."

"This is what you wanted, right?"

I collapse in the corner, screaming while clutching my ears, trying to rip them off.

Stopthinkingstopthinkingstopthinkingstopthinkingyouidiotyoufoolyouimbecile

My phone goes off again, but I can't stop freaking out; I'm sobbing, whimpering, shrieking horrible cries of "Leave me alone. You're not real." I don't think he meant it, did he? To do that to me? Maybe he just wanted to intimidate me, be the superior one. My phone is just pissing me off, now, I pick it up and chuck it across the room to hit a pillow on the sofa. I stack pillows over it to muffle the sound of him calling my name.

"Ivorie...I love you." He mutters into my ear.

_No! stop thinking!_ I hit myself in the head, taking a mouthful from Mother's bottle of brandy. She believed I was a responsible adult, so I could drink a little if I wanted to. **Just a little.**

"Ivorie, why won't you look at me? I'm sorry."

I drink a little more.

"I'm not okay, okay? It's a long story! I just need you."

A little more.

"I know I'm not mentally stable, but I **need** you."

Little more with some emergency pills.

"Please."

More.

"Help me."

**More.**


	10. Chapter 10

My thoughts gather together and I realise that I've awoken in bed, the whiskey bottle smashed next to my bed, staining the floor. I see that my phone is no longer muffled by pillows but in my back pocket. I open it and see it's 1 AM. I also notice that no one is home yet. A text opens.

Mom: Paul's out working late, Maddye and I are at his mother's house. Hope you like the alone time to study xx -Mom

I mentally sigh happily. Thank god she didn't come home and see me like this. I see another text and realise it's from Graham. _Damn it. I was talking to him._

Graham: Hey baby, I'm sorry. I know I'm messed up, but I'm getting help. I happen to have a severe Multiple Personality Disorder. I'm going to therapy, taking my meds. Just give me a chance. Please.

Stupid Ivorie: Oh well maybe we can meet for a coffee and talk things out. :)

Graham: Thank you thank you thank you you won't regret it I love you

Stupid Ivorie: I love you too. Cafe Latte tomorrow at noon?

Graham: See you then :-*

Stupid Ivorie: See you xx

I smack myself upside the head. _STUPIDSTUPIDSTUPID why did you do that! He'll find out and narc on you. You're falling into the dangerzone again._

I sigh and stand up to shower and clean up the apartment. The cold water hits my titanium frame, the drops echoing off like a rain-catcher, humming sweet melodies to the flowers in the garden of my body. The soil of my skin soaks it up, feeding what it can to the dying poinsettias and orchids and ivories and morning glories performing their morning bloom dance. The vines sprout from my ears and eyes, enclosing me in my own gown. I shut the water off, the vines dying and dropping their seeds down the drain.

The wilted vines crack and shrivel into dust when I take a large towel. It covers me like a large comforter. The scale hisses a hello as it makes its way out from beneath the counter I dug out (I just had to remove panels to get under there, so tearing them up isn't an issue; yes we have fake cupboards.) I set it on the linoleum, and let it adjust and prepare for this heavy mass to stomp on it and suffocate it until it can no longer breathe. I tap my foot, then it says Sᴛᴇᴘ Oɴ.

I step on.

The light feeling is exhilarating.

I feel the euphoria settling in my veins, pulsing.

103.6. 3 pounds from ultimate goal one. I haven't weighed myself in two weeks, so this is good progress. I mentally have a party, then get a cramp in my stomach. _Punch_. _You don't need anything. You're fine. Deal with it._

I practically fly down the stairs to clean up the apartment. There isn't much- just empty cans and tipped over glasses. I do the dishes in piping hot water, my ice-cold hands steam red when I pull them out. I eat a boiled egg white (16) with just a drop of hot sauce. Torture but metabolism rising at the same time. I eat a rice cake with it (50) and green tea (0) with who knows how much artificial sweetener (0; Breakfast = 66.) I wash down my medications with 3 glasses of water and go into the fitness room of the apartment complex.

I change into my trainers, shorts and sports bra. Time to run until I want to faint. I set the elevation at 7 and resistance at 5; the more difficult the better. I turn on the Pandora app on the crosstrainer, playing 60s radio. I run to the beat of _I Want to Hold Your Hand. _I remember when I wasn't a girl forced into a mannequin that didn't fit. My Mother always had her old tapes of old cartoons- Loonies, Muppet Babies, Beatles, it all.

Mom loved them, Dad was more of a Rolling Stones guy, but still liked them. They were both obsessed with everything old but gold. Nirvana, Wings, Metallica, anything that had a beat and that was fast or meaningful. I, liked it also, but I was more of a heavier person; Insane Clown Posse, Slayer, Slipknot, anything that got your heart beating and you sitting on the edge of your seat. But I love it all.

It's 5 AM now, I've spent 3 hours running, my legs are crying for me to stop. But I can't let them. They need to keep going. I need to keep going. I get off and go to the pool, it burns more. I change into my swimsuit, put on my nose clip, goggles, and swimcap, and get some laps going. My Dad told me the trick to not getting tired is singing a song in the back of my head. I hum something with a fast beat, to keep my heart going before going out with a hiss like a balloon.

It's 6 AM now, and I have to get ready for noon. I'm not a skip-out, and I can't become one now. That's what my Dad taught me- whether you like it or not, you gotta just get it over with. I shower in the locker rooms, looking in the giant wall mirror. I take out my phone to look at the picture from 6 months ago to compare. 6 months ago, I had taffy arms; now they're perfectly polished porcelain. My stomach, was a Jell-o bag; now a flat, concave surface. Everything's different. Everything's almost perfect. Almost.

The walk down the halls back to the apartment is tiring; I pray that Paul isn't home yet. I walk in to see that he's sitting in an armchair, glass of scotch in hand. I mutter a greeting, but no response; it's like he's a stuffed thing. I drop my duffel and stand in front of him, waving my hand in front of his face. I look at the cigarette in his hand, and take it- it's cold, like it's been sitting there in his hand for hours after it died out. He didn't even take a drag. Odd.

_Want not, waste not. _I take the pack of Marlboro NXT, taking one and lighting it- pinching it for the cool of menthol. I blow smoke rings, taking his cup and walking to the kitchen. I finish it off and wash it. He's just napping; he gets so tired after long nights. As I scrub the cup, I freeze. _There's skim stained to the cup. It takes hours for that to form. _

In a panicky manner, I run to him, and shake his shoulders. "Paul! Paul!"

Nothing.

"PAUL! PAUL, WAKE UP!" Tears stream down my face.

_I guess working yourself to death is possible._

I fall to my knees, sobbing with my head in his trousers. I slam my fists on the arms of the chair. This can't happen. Not now. I'm screaming his name, running through the apartment for my Mother.

The rooms are empty.

There's nothing but my bed and my clothes left behind.

They left.

They're all gone.

I drag my feet down the stairs, slumping onto the sofa. They abandoned me. I knew I shouldn't have trusted her. My thoughts float away to my phone, and I get dialing. _Brrrrrrrr…..brrrrrr…..brrrrrr…..I'm sorry, you have tried to contact- Sarah Angelo -but they are not available. Please- _I hang up. She abandoned me. I hear the chiming of the message machine, and press listen.

"There's 5,000 dollars in Paul's open account, and 50,000 in your college fund." It hangs up. The bitch got up and left. She got sick of me and left. I knew she wasn't mentally stable enough for this. So she got up, killed Paul (or that's what it looks like,) took the baby and left.

My brain shuts off as I sit down with the cigarette and my phone. I take another drag, letting the smoke flood my brain and lungs, and I cough hard. Before I realise it, I'm texting Graham:

Stupid Ivorie: Graham I need you i need you i need you pauls dead my mom left i have noone help me

I burn my wrist with the cigarette yelling, "STUPID STUPID STUPID!" as the message sends. My phone dings.

Graham: Oh, well I'll be there right away you still live in that apartment, right?

Stupid Ivorie: Yes thank you thank you thank you :'(

I groan. Why. Did. I. Do. That. I go into the kitchen and pull out my energy drink (0) and mix it with vodka. I'm gonna need something to survive this. It's nothing towards Graham, I'm just afraid of what he'll do. He threw me down and screwed me, without my consent. Yeah, I sound like a complete chick saying it that way, but it's just scary. I guess it wasn't very mentally scarring to me, just a little scary.

Maybe Graham can have another chance. Maybe. Or we can just start out slow and make sure Graham is Graham, not psycho-second-personality-Graham or psychopathic-Graham, or any of the other bad Grahams. I know his multiple personality can get really bad, but that night it just went overboard. I've seen most of them; those two Grahams, nice Graham, mean Graham, sad Graham, apathetic, sympathetic, the list goes on. But for some reason, no matter how angry I am, I still love him.

I think it's because he reminds me of my father. A _lot_. So I guess he's safe to me. But I don't need him. I don't need people; they're just nuisances that get in your way from achieving your goals. I sip more energy drink, the cold caffeinated water sliding down my throat. I don't look at or even think about Paul's dead corpse, I only stare into blank space. Nothing's moving. Paul's heart isn't beating. Nor is mine.

The cigarette sitting between his dead, limp fingers is just sitting there, the light coat of spit on the filter drying away. I don't touch his bottle of scotch; he'll need it for the trip to the other side. I wonder what happened; did Mo- Sarah lace his scotch, take the baby and leave? Did he just have a heart attack and Sarah didn't notice? Was she convinced that he was just napping and would meet them at the new location later?

Or maybe it was my fault. Maybe I went mad and ran around on a wicked killing-spree- popping potassium cyanide and ridiculous amounts of methamphetamine into everyone's glasses. Sarah just didn't want a whiskey sour at the time, that's how she lived. Then she realised that the baby's bottle was laced and immediately left the psychopath behind to vegetate to nothing. Nothing but a fat, pus-filled water balloon.

Maybe instead of running on the treadmill I took a knife and ran through the streets rampant, stabbing every passerby and bathing in their blood. There's going to be blood on my hands and a story on _Fox 9_- a tragedy almost as bad as the shooting and bomb threats and the meth lab busted in New Prague. Or the murderer arrested by Eagan for killing some lady named Sally or whoever it was. Maybe my trousers and shirt are actually coated and dried with blood, the smell filling the room so terribly to where the flies fall and die. I'm going to answer the doorbell, press the button to let them in, and then the boys in blue are going to tackle me down and handcuff me, putting me in a straight jacket and tossing me into the ward of crazy people where I belong.

Then they're going to stab plastic sugar tubes into my wrists and throat and brain. That's where they'll have me look at ink blots and I'll tell them about all the Satanic demons I see and the graffiti telling me that I've gone crazy and need more pills and sugar candies and happy tablets and medical marijuana to keep me stoned and happier than hell. I shake my head out of it and chug the rest of my drink and start to pace with the radio blasting. The smell of pizza from next door is driving my neurons up the wall. It's like 7 AM and the neighbours already have the pizza and their metal tracks blasting- wait the metal is mine, but the point is taken.

The bell buzzes and I speak into the speaker, but I'm cut off by Graham's panicked voice. "Ivorie are you okay?!"

I press the button to let him in, and it takes him five seconds to run up the flights of stairs and practically crash in through the door. He's panicked, his stubble not shaven and brown hair all scruffed in his face. I can tell he's missing an eye contact and didn't take his ritalin, or his strattera, or his ativan, or his lorazepam, or any of the other crazy meds they put him on. I stand blankly, tears pouring down my face as I look at him with the most pathetic fake smile ever.

"Fucking stupendous." I laugh madly, Niagara pouring harder and shaking with fear.

The dams holding up the water burst and the concrete sinks to the bottom of the never ending river. The wall built between Graham and I, laced with miles and miles of barbed wire and salt and lava pits and crocodiles and millions of other dangerous things have died. Graham swam his way across the moat and fought through the woods like Crocodile Dundee, destroying the dragons that guarded the dying, sleeping princess in her highest tower in the moonlight.


	11. Chapter 11

I stand there blankly, wondering what the hell I've done. _You idiot! Now you've got this moron here!_ My mind keeps bitching me out for calling for help, especially Graham. I stand there, still, blankly, chuckling madly to myself. The scent of the dead corpse is actually starting to fill the air and get a little gross. Graham has his shirt pulled up over his nose as he guides me to a chair.

"Well, we'll get him cleaned up," He dialed his phone, probably to call authorities to take Paul away. "and we'll figure out what to do with you."

I'm rocking back and forth, cigarette hanging from my lip, just burning away. I take another drag, and blow smoke out my nose. Graham looks around and finds the Febreze, spraying like mad so it smells like apples and cinnamon. I'm still smoking, trying to calm down, and soon the nicotine hits my brain, calming me down with the very small high it supplies. Graham rubs my shoulder before going into the kitchen and pulling out boxes and stuff.

"You want oatmeal, I suppose?" He takes a packet (100) out. "You're shaking. You need to eat something. Like now."

"No, I'm fine, it's because I haven't had a cigarette until now and I'm shocked." I lie.

He sighs. "You need to eat something. You don't have to eat all of it, at least take a bite or two. Or have some fruit."

_No, I don't need to eat anything, I already had 66 calories today, which is way too much for my little balloon of a stomach. I'm fine now please go away and never come back and let me disintegrate alone. _I bite hard into my cheek, reminding myself that I already had breakfast and I'm fine.

"I already had breakfast, Graham." I said.

"What did you have?" He interjected.

"I woke up early, so I decided to make some eggs and rice cakes. And tea."

Graham heated a skillet, and he smiled. "But I haven't had breakfast."

He takes out a small potato (163) and starts to chop it up into small little portions, taking peppers (15) out and leftovers of corn (133.) The pan is searing with butter (72) as he mixes his ingredients together and fries them up in the pan, taking out the eggs (90/egg) and cracks four (360) into a bowl to whisk together. The sound of the sizzling potatoes and peppers and corn is o̶v̶e̶r̶w̶h̶e̶l̶m̶i̶n̶g̶ disgusting. He starts to put in pepper and season salt and lots of other gross things. My stomach turns and I punch it in a unnoticeable manner.

_You don't need to eat that. It's disgusting, fattening; it'll go into your blood and harden in your vessels and kill you. Do you want that to happen? No, so shut up and keep at it. _I'm in the kitchen, taking in the aroma of the cooking food. I go and get two english muffins (100) and jam (50) and start toasting. Then I stop. _Nononononono you don't need this stopstopstop_.

"Ivorie? What's wrong?" Graham pauses from turning the eggs.

I stand there, and I say nothing. I don't know what's going on. I don't know where I am. The clouds close in, wind sweeping my hair to the side. The snow starts falling. _Oh no, not again. _I stand there vacantly, a living ghost in a dying world. Snowflakes turn into bunches and it's no longer fluffy; it's like hard sleet detonating against my cold skin. Everything is blue, then grey, then nothing.

My heart is beating hard. _B-bmp...b-bmp...b-bmp..._and slow. It skips a beat, and I don't mean romantically. It's all spinning, and the toaster pops up. I'm wondering what I'm doing. I'm not supposed to be eating this. Graham takes the muffins out for me and starts to put raspberry preserves on them for me. My mouth is overflowing with words and saliva. I want to yell and scream and cry but then again I want to sob and hug him and tell him everything that's wrong.

I'm standing there, still, and Graham is poking me, but I don't notice it. I'm feeling it, but not noticing, if that makes any sense. My legs feel heavy, like I've been running and I haven't stopped; my arms are weighed down with sand. Maybe if I pulled the cord, a flame would erupt and I'd start flying. Or maybe if I just-

Wait no, that wouldn't work.

Graham is shaking me now, but I'm still gone. The blizzard gets worse, the wind beating hard against my ice cold skin. The temperature keeps dropping, to the point where I'm confused as to why Graham is still alive. He should be frozen solid, his eyes still open and blinking in a confused demeanor. My breath is fog, heavy and cold, soulless. I'm trying to dig my way out, but I can't. I'm stuck.

I'm lying on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. I'm eating english muffins smothered in jam (250) and not even worrying about the jam on my face. I'm selfishly stuffing my mouth and not even caring. I'm drinking tea (0) and telling Graham how I came in and just saw Paul there and the voice messages. I'm just a normal girl crying my eyes and heart-hurts out to a boy. Simple.

He's nodding and trying to understand, forking a potato and putting it in his mouth. Paul spent maybe a dime on that potato he cut up, a dollar for the corn, and 50 cents for the pepper. Wait, no, I bought that pepper to eat as a snack with hummus, or maybe in soup. I'm talkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalkingtalking

shutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutup

**Shut up.**


	12. Chapter 12

As the words pour out of my mouth, muffins filling it, I realise all that I'm doing. Authorities come by and take Paul...and I'm asked of my age, ID, etcetera to make sure I'm legally old enough to take care of myself. I'm passed by, since it's such a small matter not requiring the courts' attention. A man stops in front of me, with grey eyes full of pity, and looks down into me as if he's scanning my soul if I had one. His hair is a greasy, yet fluffy shade of red. He's got an infected nose piercing, and judging by the flaring of his nose with it it's bugging him. He wears a plain old band t-shirt, I think The Smiths, and wears baggy old cargo pants.

"It'll be okay. If you need help…" He pulls out a business card-no, a sticky note, my mind's fuzzy at all the cards people are giving me; I've already thirteen. "..I'm here."

I breathe a thank you and realise he has nothing to do with authorities- he's the guy with the metalheads in the apartment next door. I'm confused as to how he got in, realising that the door's wide open and in the apartment, nobody knows nothing of what's happening. Graham seems to have disappeared, but I then realise that he did leave; this guy told him he'd take care of me and he left. Bastard ate my food.

Ha, typical Graham. Comes to the party for the food; but what kind of party is this? Where's the music and the jell-o shots and drugs to numb our minds into going home to someone else's bed? Everything seems to be blurring out, and it's like I'm in another dimension. I see the flashing lights, the smell of dope and alcohol and other smogs filling my nose. It smells of stoner brownies and lsd-laced sugar cubes, alcohol-based Kool-Aid. I'm at a party.

The music pulses along with my veins and heart. Glo-sticks and ecstasy and cheaters and liars and false-love. I look around to see it's dark and all the music is electronic beats that cause all humans to come together as one. I see people drunkenly and twistedly dancing/grinding with people they hate/workwith/**dontevenfuckingknow**. I'm apparently the sober driver, judging by the glass of gross tap water in my hand. I'm walking and stepping around old cups, plates, and maybe even clothes.

I'm in a no-clothes party or whatever you call it, and I'm gross. This is before I decided to change the rules of eating and living. My chubby thighs brush as I walk, my stomach bouncing with every step. Graham and his friends gather around me, and let me tell you, Graham is _fucked up_.

"She's mine…" Graham mutters angrily and defensively as another guy tried to approach me. He comes by and wraps his arm around me. I don't know whether to smack him away or to shove him over, but all I know is that I can't fight.

There's something about him that intrigues me; draws me closer to him. No matter how he hurts me, I have to stay near. Graham is whispering in my ear, hands caressing my breasts in their blue bra with, classy me, mismatched black panties. He's standing in front of me, and again,

_I'm afraid._

We're in a room in this stupid warehouse in this rave, and he's kissing me all over, my hands grasping him wanting more but wanting him to leave. Graham holds me down with the pressure of his hips on mine. My face is flushing red; nervous, scared tears are running down my cheeks and he's overpowering me.

"Why don't we behave, hm?" He snarls seductively in my ear.

My undergarments find their way off of me, and everything is being touched, kissed, squeezed, all in this small, sweaty claustrophobic room that I'm trapped in. Something hard is pressing against me, and I'm on top, his boxers being pulled down vigorously by yours truly, and my mouth is on his shaft, violently moving and sucking. It's as if he's got a remote and is controlling me, but no, I'm doing this by my own free will. Graham throws his head back, trying the hardest he can from bucking his hips.

"O-oh shit!" He yells, fisting my hair.

I suppose I'm his slave, slave to every extent and wish he holds. I'm just the empty follower, listening to his every command.

_But, is this right?_

I feel as if I'm being used for something, my body and soul is being thrown into this dark game. One would say that's love, another that it's completely unconstitutional, whatever that means. Nightmares and flashbacks keep haunting me, of all this, of him. I'm screaming, crying, slowly dying, thrashing my arms in protest like a little 3-year-old, but then a hand collides with my face.

"HEY! You said you'd behave!" He angrily remarks. I nod in apology, the water flowing quickly, penis in half-way, and my fear consuming me with all the amazing pleasure.

I open my eyes and realise I'm being shaken awake. It was all a dream. This redhead guy is yelling for me to wake up, that it's all going to be okay. I sob and cry into my knees, glad that it's all over. For now.


	13. Chapter 13

Leonard, I think. His name is Leonard. Leonard Fox. He lives in the same apartment building as me, next door, and he listens to the same music as me. He works in an old record shop. He likes the Beatles and the Smiths, then again he'll listen to Slayer and the Rolling Stones. My mind is still foggy after my spasm, as always. I'm lying on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling again, drifting in and out from the mental exhaustion of these memories. I'm pretty sure Leonard is in my kitchen making some broth; he said earlier my forehead felt a little hot and I looked ill.

The steamy, creamy smell of chicken broth fills my nose. My brain doesn't want this but my stomach does but it doesn't no you can't eat it eat it no nonoonononononono. He sets it in front of me on the coffee table, looking at me expectantly.

"You need to eat." He says bluntly.

"I'm vegan." I half-lie.

"Well." Leonard sets another bowl in front of me. "It's tomato. With water; I suppose your stomach is pretty upset."

I nod in thanks, lightly sipping the tomato-ness (90.) Wait, how many calories have I had today? These protruding thoughts scatter my logic, just to figure it out down to the dot...90, plus 66...hm...250… I mentally scream in horror. I've had 406 calories today. I wanted to start sobbing, but I couldn't. He'd then know. He'd find out, and then who's screwed?

I am.

Who's fault is it?

Mine.

Who'll be there to support me?

No one.

Who'll actually recover?

Lol not me.

I shake my head out of it by soothing it with magical spells that keep me somewhat relaxed.

It's okay.

You can exercise later.

Until your legs burn and melt away to nothing.

It's an easy fix.

I exhale slowly, the steam coming off my soup puffs away in it's own little cloud. I wonder if it tastes like tomatoes and pepper, or if it's just water. Just to assure Leonard I'm somewhat alright, I breathe in the cloud. Ugh. It's water. I blow little rings with it and he smiles softly.

"I'm sorry about your Dad." He apologises. I cut him off before he can continue.

"Don't be. He wasn't very nice anyway." I mutter bluntly. "He wasn't very nice to my Ma, either. Paul was always grouchy and mean."

Leonard gives me a perplexed look. "Then why were you crying?"

"You'd cry too if you saw a cigarette being wasted." I chuckle darkly. Wait. Ivorie isn't giving a very good first impression, is she? Eh, forgive and forget. "No, but if you saw a dead body. It's just not pretty. It's horrifying."

"I know." He replied quietly.

I look up, curious at his empty reaction. Well, it wasn't empty, just indescribable, like he was showing a million different things but they all weren't quite elucidated. I sat there, pondering what emotion he actually showed. Leonard stood up abruptly.

"Well, I better be going, I don't want to invade, and I've got my daughter next door, so..." He trailed off, getting his sweater and shoes on. I don't speak, I just nod curtly.

"Thank you-" The door shuts. I'm all alone.

I stand up and pour the remains of the chicken broth down the drain, rinsing both bowls. I dry them and put them away, then dry the sink. I heave a sigh and sit down, looking around at the mess in Ma-my apartment. Paul's recliner sits alone, wrapped in plastic for others to find fingerprints to maybe find who killed him. Cigarette ashes and alcohol stain the floor, black smudges and irremovable brown whiskey blotches. Papers litter the floor; Paul's bills, some of Ma's mail, and maybe some of my paperwork I was supposed to do but never did because Paul was holding onto it for me, knowing I'd lose it or scribble on it.

I walk around, collecting the papers and sorting them into piles- my paperwork, bills I have to pay now, and ads, which instantly go into the recycling. I waste spend time filling it all out, writing checks, paying things and balancing everything. Not the first time I've done it, I used to do it for my Dad, when he was always high up there. I put everything in envelopes and go out to drop it in the dropbox. I look out to the city and see the time and date. It's 2 pm, and-

my birthday.


	14. Chapter 14

Not that it's a big deal, only the day that says I'm eighteen years old, can vote, and- I laugh dispiritedly. Now I can decide whether I go to treatment or not, and they can't revoke my emancipation.

I'm unstoppable.

I walk into the building and up the stairs, down this hallway and that, and practically dance into the apartment. Everything in the room seems happier now. The colours on the wall and paintings smile back at me, the flowers on the windowsill dance with me. I'm light, airy, and weightless. The lights sing and the outlets surge with happiness. I haven't even taken my meds and I'm so happy. So fucking happy.

That reminds me. I cross the living room to the cabinet to take my large amount of drugs the doc gave me. I open the cabinet to see 4 pill bottles, all assigned to Ivorie Daniau, Ellen otherwise whom I would call myself. I look in each bottle to count the pills I have left; I have enough left for another week including today. I take out the pills: 2 fat blue tablets, 1 lime-and-white capsule, 4 pea-sized white, and 1 baby blue. Adderall, Prozac, Valium, and Ativan. The nuts and bolts to my brain, what keeps my head somewhat straight.

They all go down in little groups, the dextroamphetamine first, fluoxetine next, diazepam following, and to end the train, lorazepam. After nights of being lonely and fearful and wondering what will kill me and what will make me live to be a hundred, you memorise all the names to every medicine you know or possess. The fluoxetine would just make me extremely happy, the diazepam might do something, but otherwise I'll just relax and sleep deeply. I don't need diazepam for that, smoking does plenty. Lorazepam would do the same thing as diazepam, just slightly weaker.

The dextroamphetamine? Pft, that'd kill me easily- six magic tablets and to the final exit and I'd go, easy. I shake my head from those thoughts, those wretched, dark thoughts that not even I would think by choice. Do what Ridley told you, use the magic incantations to make yourself feel alive. She always said to be positive and that, if it came to that, to call her immediately. I scoff, imagining her coming in and talking to me and seeing this mess and seeing how much I've lost and seeing bones and learning the number.

I crane my neck over to the calendar, reading the date and what would be happening. Oh. I missed my appointment yesterday. The answering machine (which is really, really, really stupid and never works,) goes off announcing a message from yesterday. Speak of the Devil. I walk back across the living room to the small side table with the dumb black box and hit "Play."

"You have one new message. First new message: Hello, Ivorie, this is Dr. Ridley, and I'm just here to tell you that you missed your appointment, so I had rescheduled one for Saturday the ninth of August, at noon. If that doesn't work for you then you could call me and I can easily reschedule for some other date...Your Mother just doesn't-"

I pound my fist on the delicate machine. Plastic bits fly and electricity sparks and I'm lain on the ground in a ball, head buried in my knees. I cover my ears. No no no no no no no I don't want to hear it I don't want to hear it I don't want to fucking hear it.

Ridley doesn't know she's gone. She doesn't know that Mom Sarah is gone and Paul is dead. She doesn't know that I'll never see Maddye walk or speak for the first time or even be able to braid her soon-to-be-long hair. She's completely oblivious. Have the police not informed her? Well, I suppose they wouldn't, since my mental health isn't any of their business or priority.

Or maybe she does know, she's just testing if I trust her and if I'll tell her everything that's wrong and everything that's somewhat right and everything else. I groan into my titanium knee-caps, and force myself up. You can't stop now, not yet. I look and see that electricity is still hissing and I unplug the damn thing and throw it in the waste bin. I'm sick of talking to people. I don't feel like it, I guess is what you could say.

But not in the selfish, stubborn way, that I am an eight-year-old girl who's angry because I can't go to my "best friend's" birthday party because I hit my brother. In the way that I are afraid, of whom I can hurt, and whom can hurt me. I'm afraid that the bitter August wind will take me up and blow me away to somewhere foreign, or to my Mother Sarah and Maddye. Or maybe I'll just fly with it into a land of Oz, but not Oz, maybe some sort of land full of girls just like me and I'll fit right in and be happy.

We'll starve and exercise and stick our fingers down our throats together and slice each other's skin with the hair of angels, watch little pearls drip down; stitch them up with strings of gold and tourniquet them with silk. The purer we become, the more likely we are to float and drift away, not into angels, but little demonic imps going down to spread the curse. We shrink down and crawl and scrape our way into little girls' ears and make a nest in your brain, all made up of your self-judgement and logical thinking. That's why you just wake up and one day the Voice is there. Others' hate is what fuels us, filling our concave bellies.


	15. Chapter 15

I'm staring angrily into the waste bin, down at the smashed plastic and wiring. Why wouldn't she be informed? Is Ridley an idiot like I've been convinced of? I mean, she gets paid to have people pour their bullshit into her ears and to write it on her pad and then nod and say, "How do you feel about that?" She's paid to dope up people with messed up heads like me, and watch them decay into vegetables. I scream in frustration, pounding my fist onto the table, and there's a _crack _in my wrist.

I whine in pain and look through the bathroom drawers for a cast. My wrist is completely popped out of position, and I can't do a thing about it. Can't go to the doctor, they'll weigh me and lock me up again. I can't do _that _again, I've already gotten to one of my goals. I swallow hard: I'll have to push it back into place. I groan.

Being as stupid as I am, I ball my hand into a fist, put it against the wall, and lean on my elbow, moaning lowly in pain. I push until I hear another _crack_, putting on the cast, and the pain is gone. More or less. I wiggle my fingers and fight the impulse to giggle like a nine-year-old. My phone ringing cancels out my giggling. It's the default tone for unknown numbers. I go and pick the goddamn thing up and stuff it under a sofa cushion, going upstairs to lie in my mother's Sarah's bed.

The sheets are gone, but the deep plum coloured undersheet and trim-sheet is left behind. The four-poster is stripped of it's inhabitants, probably to never be lain on by Sarah and Paul Angelo again. No more of younger me running in crying and hiding between the sheets from the monsters in my closet and under my bed. No more of Maddye crawling up and jumping around, soon to fall off and hit her head.

I've got to go away. I've got to make this go away. I run downstairs and pick up my phone and text a contact.

**To Cate **

Hey, I need a hookup bad.

I set my phone down and go into the kitchen. What am I thinking? I haven't smoked pot in a while, but that won't work. I need something **stronger**. I wait anxiously, pacing back and forth from the sink to the other side of the living room. My phone goes off.

**From Cate**

ok wat r u lookin 4

**To Cate**

Something strong.

Beep beep.

**From Cate**

I got stardust, diamonds, and cubes

**To Cate**

Gimme what ya got

Beep beep.

**From Cate**

Ahaha alright man having a hard day? Meet me at the turf

The turf is a small house built in the 60s where all the ads meet up to get fucked up. It's never on the market, yet no one pays for it. It's sort of abandoned. Blue boys even go there sometimes to get a line in. I haven't been there in a while though; last time I remember was when Graham brought me and bought ecstasy for the both of us and we tripped out in his car. I shake my head out of it. I dress in sweats (lined with two pairs of leggings beneath,) and a tank with two sweaters over. You don't need to dress nice to get high.

My car is driving out through the rain (nice surprise) and I'm listening to Sublime on full volume and singing loudly, sometimes skipping tracks until I find one that meets my interest. It's almost nine, and I'm anxious to meet with Cate. I haven't seen her in a while. She's like a friend and a dealer, which is convenient for me because you know what that means: discounts. I shut my headlights off as I enter the street the turf is on, pulling into the cheap gravel driveway. It's lined with cigarettes, lost one-hitters and shame covered with highs.

I get out of the car and lightly shut the door, bag in one hand with a flask of whiskey in the other. I'm pretty sure the amounts I'm buying will be about 50, but you never know. The turf is just as I remember it; it's got a strong smell of marijuana, is dimly lit, and barely contains any people. I see three people: Cate, John, and Lauren. I smile a small smile, with the look of "I got it," even though I don't even know what there is that I have and that they want. Cate motions me to sit next to her.

Catherine Rivers is your small-time drug dealer that everyone knows, but never rats out. She'll mess you up, chew you up and spit you across three wheat fields and pay someone to do it all over again. Cate's not rich, in fact she's what the ecilop know as 'slum-kitty' because of her life in the slums and femininity. Kitty is what she's known as to most of her anonymous customers, but if you're like me, Lauren, or John, you're special.

I sit down next to Cate, and nod at the others in greeting, whom look to freaking out of it to even know I exist. Cate looks at me like I'm stupid to expect a reaction and I laugh softly. She takes out her bag and pulls a blacked-out plastic bag out, labeled "Whitey." Whitey's my street name to the anons and fiends and creeps. It's because Ivory is typically a creamy white colour, which makes complete sense.

Cate mutters, "That's 30, man. Giving you a discount: you look like you had a bad day."

I give her the 30 and pull out three things: a sheet, whole coke (she knows I like to crush my own,) and a medium bag of mary-jane. I smile and thank her, taking out my pipe and grinder. I put the cloves in the grinder, putting the cap on and twisting it and smiling at the sound of pot crunching down into smokable size. I tap it out into my dugout, and take the coke and crush that. When I open it, I sniff hard, taking in the scent and a little dust.

The weed and coke sit in my bowl, waiting to be smoked as I take a sheet and put it on my tongue. I laugh, muttering, "See ya later."


	16. Chapter 16

The remains of what couldn't possibly fit into my bowl sits in the bag, in my purse. I take it and put it up to my mouth, taking a lighter. _Light 'em up_. I'm interrupted by John, coughing smoke as he surprised me.

"No," He smiled. He pulled out a large bong. It could fit in one's lap. "This."

I laughed, and took it in my lap. The sheet was messing with my head; I'm seeing the sounds dance around the room and the colours feel weird on my tongue. I put my mouth on it, lit the bowl, and bubbles. They dance and scream and laugh with a dark demeanor. I hold my breath, the bitter, but sweet (due to the sheet) taste. It tasted like sugar cubes…I cough, thick smoke filling the air. John laughed, pointing at the smoke.

"Look, man." He said, wheezing. I look up and see the smoke, dancing around in little wisps, and soon pixies are flying around me, talking to me, whispering in my ear.

"_The caloriesss are in the ssssmoke…" _They hiss, caressing my face. "_Look at your legssssss…."_

I look down at my legs and I see they're filling like a wrapper filling with taffy. I poke it and it keeps my print like memory-foam. I whimper, looking down at it. I look at John and Cate and Lauren desperately. I look down at them again and it's all purple and squishy. I take a piece that stretches like actual taffy. I look at Cate again.

"Caaaaaaate." I whine.

"What?" She looks at me, then gasps. "What happened?"

"Do I l-look _chubby _to you?" I whimper. "I'm made out of taffy."

"Oh God." John laughs in hysterics. "It's really getting to her."

"No, in fact you may want to stop doing that." Cate replies, blowing a smoke ring.

"Why? It's fun to play with. Like Play-Doh." I look down and laugh. "Woah."

My legs now have turned into actual butter, creamed with sugar, all together. It's like I'm a sugary butter-statue. Like what you mix when you're making cookies, but I don't want cookies. I especially don't want to _be_ cookies. I poke it and my finger mark stays, the pasty saltiness on my finger melts down my arm. I cry in fear, getting it off.

"Get it off of me!" I shouted, wiping the butter off. My legs melted and now I can't walk, I'm covered in butter. "Get it off of me! It's going to go into my skin!"

"Ivorie, calm down." Cate says.

But she's not Cate; she's made of chocolate and Skittles and M&M's and has a Reese's filling. The chocolate person in front of me is scaring the shit out of me, and I don't like it. She bites her hand off and chomps, filling her bulbous stomach, peanut butter and rainbow-coloured M&M's and Skittles leaking out like blood. I motion her to go away, because she's scaring the daylights out of me and I don't need want those calories to enter my butter-body. I crawl away with what I have left of a body, but my legs are back.

Now I'm like a wooden figurine made of Pocky and Yan-Yan and breadsticks and other carbohydrates I don't want. Vanilla filling from Yan-Yan gives my skin colour, chocolate lining my hair and strawberry blushing my cheeks. I lick my hand, the sweet vanilla bursting on my tongue. I want to eat it all, but I can't. _This isn't real. You're tripping. Calm. _

I look and John hands me a Budweiser, a tall, red tin (145.) I take it and nod a thanks, my pocky-hands snapping the tin cap off with a _hiss_. The hiss is traveling into my ears and through my brain and cools down my overheated neurons. The cold, crisp metal touches my lips, the bitter taste traveling across my tongue and down my throat. The bubbles are swimming around, screaming.

I don't know if I want this. I don't know what this is. I'm probably not even aware that I exist, I'm just a being roaming around pissing everyone off. I'm the backwash in your water, the heat that ruins your ice cream, the potato chip crumbs that slip down your shirt and drive you mad. I'm just a waste, meant to ruin and irritate everyone and everything.

_A waste._


	17. Chapter 17

I wake up on the floor in my living room, shaken. I look down and see I'm no longer made of food, there are no more evil calorie-sprites to annoy me (especially in the drive thr-

**What**.

No. I couldn't have eaten something. Nononononononononononono I couldn't have I never get hungry. _Never._ I look around and see my worst nightmare: there's an old McDonald's bag, but I don't feel anything in my stomach. I look up at the walls to see smeared meat and bread and ketchup and other condiments. There's french fries stuffed into the outlets and mustard filling the ashtray.

_My head hurts. _I get up and pour some coffee (0) with a packet of Splenda (0) and I hear someone's footfalls down the steps. I turn and see a very tired and hungover Cate, taking her own cup of coffee with creamer (110) but she doesn't care. Cate likes things sweet and sugar-coated and calorie-based. She goes into Paul's sweets cupboard and takes out a doughnut, (300) large and chocolatey and smeared in sugar and butter and oil.

Cate's like everyone else. She doesn't care about what she's putting in her mouth. Cate does whatever Cate wants and if someone has a problem with it she deals with them. She's of a bit heavier build, based from munchies and constant heroin spikes. She's always up and down weight-wise, yet everyone seems to like her, even if she's heavier than me.

But that's because she gets them their drugs.

Me? I kinda just get really drunk, run around, piss everyone off, and then get thrown somewhere just to have Cate pick me up and drive me home, leaving my car keys on the counter so I can retrieve it from wherever the hell I left it. Cate's done so much more, but no matter what I do, it seems like nothing. Just a mere act. A service. A requirement.


	18. Chapter 18

Cate helps me to clean up, by taking a toothpick and removing the fries. I am the lucky one who gets the meat off of the walls and wiping the dressings off the walls and scrubbing the ashtray. I mindlessly scrub, trying to recount last night. _Well, LSD is now a no-no, but the trip was kind of fun._ I finally get the stains, but the smell is horrible. I use scented floor cleaner and smear it over the sour smell of mustard and meat and ketchup. Once we finish, I lie down on the sofa, curled up in a toothpick-y ball, with a cup of mint tea (0) at the table.

Lauren and John come down the stairs, Lauren sits next to me and John goes up to get a doughnut (300) like Cate did. I gag a small mouthful of minty tea in my mouth. I stand up and run to the bathroom to hack up every amount of coffee and tea I consumed this morning. I'm sicker than a dog, which honestly, is good for me. That means weight loss.

Catherine comes into the powder and feels my forehead. "White, you're sick. Go up to ya Ma's bed and lie down, kay? I'll take care of you."

"I can stay and clean up, I mean I did sleep through your guys' montage." John says. "OCD's actin' up anyway and yer cooler is driving me nuts."

Lauren gets up and makes herself some toast (70) with a butter packet (40.) She's got the same problems as I do, but, hers are a little different. I'm a faster, and she's a puker. Lauren will eat and eat and eat until her little mouse stomach can't hold any more, so she'll empty it like a snake. She'll fill and empty and fill and empty, scraping out the same old rubbish with the same rusty old spoon used by all the others just like her.

The imp inside her head isn't like mine; it doesn't tell her what to do, it just tells her she's worthless and needs to get her shit together and blah blah blah. Stuff that's foreign to her, because she doesn't know what else to do about it other than _eatemptyeatemptyeatempty_. I used to do that, but then I gained control, it went from eating and emptying to just emptying and shrinking and nothing more. You'll shrink until you're nothing more than a speck of dust under the rug.

Lauren sits next to me with her toast and looks at me with a sad smile. Lauren knows what's up. I've met 103.60 and I'm still striving to go down. Lauren isn't even sure what she's doing anymore. It's just filling and emptying and not gaining any weight but she's grown used to it. Her teeth are yellow, glands are swollen and her hair is brittle. I know, because I've hold it back for her, puking in the crummy Kum-n-Go toilet on the way to Iowa to buy cigarettes because she insisted on getting those Tornados from the Kwik Trip 10 miles earlier.

Lauren slowly picks at her toast and then soon devours it ravenously, asking if there's doughnuts. John nods and points up to the box. She takes two (700) and practically starts stuffing her face. It scares me and I make it look nonchalant as I scoot over. But she gets why food sickens me. She was standing in the same room when I reached the Ultimate Goal. We, together, had snuck minor memberships to work out for hours on end, just for her to go out and binge again. That was our cycle.


	19. Chapter 19

It's almost noon, and by now everyone has left and Cate left her new cell number, in case I needed her. Lauren and John do the same. I'm dressed in three pairs of white leggings, two tank tops under a cliche summer shirt (_Just Chillin'_,) and my boots. Yes, it's still summer, but it's still cold here. It always has been. I get out of the apartment and start my golf, driving to the appointment today. No way I'll be able to walk and live at the same time.

Soon, I'm there and I park, walking into the office to see Dr. Ridley holding a mug of peppermint tea. She nods towards the office and I follow behind. I sit down in the cheap chair, pushed into the worn-down, welfare-funded, plastic table. Ridley redecorated in here; the bookshelf is no longer behind her desk, but now it's in the corner by the basket of stress toys. Her desk is now turned by the window, to get a nice view of the train tracks and pollution otherwise known as the river.

I look down at the table, poking and tracing into the scraped-in words by other troubled delinquents. I see new words:

_Fuk this place_

_Slayer_

_Die_

**Die.**

I shake my head and Ridley looks at me with a look of query, and I shrug it off. She opens her empty notepad, clicking the pen. It's strange, because, I actually have the impulse to say something, let her know what's on my mind. Granted, there were times that I said '_Last weekend was okay, but I was depressed,' _and things like that, but this impulse was stronger. It was like I _wanted _to let her know. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to let a few things off of my chest, it'd probably be healthy, even. I should say something.

_No, shut up._

But I want to.

_Shut. Up._

No.

"So how was this week?" She asks, writing down something in her scrawly, office-woman writing. "I saw that it was your birthday yesterday, my congrats."

It says _**8/9/14**__,_ below the hundreds of other dates with nothing listed below them. There are few that say, '_She feels fine._' and '_Weekend wasn't very good symptom-wise,_' but other than that it's all empty. You'd see that if you were to go to the other pages before that. I nod a thanks, and open my mouth. Suddenly, she looks excited, almost euphoric, that I am going to speak.

"H-horrible." The words dribble out like an old woman dropping crumbs of a muffin (440) from her lip, like I watched this morning. They even sound pained, like I'm going to-

Niagara has started to fall. I'm weeping into my cold, dead hands, the tears falling through the cracks onto my leggings, light grey circles soon turn into giant lakes. Ridley looks with an expression of much pity, maybe the most she's given anyone (as far as I know,) and writes _Horrible, starts crying _in her pink InkJoy pen. I attempt to calm down, and the downpour calms to a drizzle. I sniffle, and she hands me a tissue.

"Paul died. Ma left me. Went out and got completely fucked up. My head hurts." I mumble.

Ridley writes with such excitement, to where one would worry about what she does in her spare time. She nods and makes noises of comprehension, still scribbling as I speak in detail. I take a few moments to wipe my eyes, blow my nose into the now worn-out tissue, just to grab another one. I'm thinking of Paul, how his head hung forward, cigarette dead between his fingers. His scotch remained untouched in his other hand, the cool ice melting and fogging up the glass. I think of how selfish it was of me to take the fag, and the scotch; he at least deserved a drink in the afterlife.

"How does this make you feel? Did you have someone to stay with you for support?" Dr. Ridley asks. I nod.

"I immediately got Graham. Then I went out with Cate, Lauren, and John. Because I was feeling crappy, I got really intoxicated." I lie. I wasn't drunk, Lauren was. I was higher than _Cheech and Chong's Next Movie_. I barely remember what chemicals went into my body, and I barely know what comes out.

Dr. Ridley immediately has _the look. _The look of when your therapist hears about the _one _person they know is a horrible influence in your life. Yes, she has heard a _lot _about Graham, on the rare days I would speak. She moistens her red-stained lips. "You know what influence Mr. Brooks has on your life."

"I know." I mutter, looking down at my cellulite-filled thighs. "He's just always been ther-"

"-there to hurt you." She says sternly.

I am about to open my mouth, but before I can snap back, the timer goes off and I shoot up. Marianne Ridley closes her notepad and clicks her pen, sighing. She stands up and puts it under the file labeled, _Daniau, Ivorie Rose_

"Today was good." She cleared her throat. "You made progress. How about next week, the seventeenth, approximately at three?"

I nod blankly. "Thank you."

"No, thank you, Ivorie."

I swear tears welled up in her eyes as I walked out to my car.


End file.
